Flute
by quaba-q
Summary: What happens when life catches up to Harry? The despair turns him to the blade and cutting.


Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or anything else in the Potterverse.  JK Rowling, Warner Bros., and a few others own Harry Potter.

Flute 

There it is again, the flute that Hagrid gave me.  And I know what lies just beneath it, the now repaired penknife that Sirius gave me.  It is always the same.  I go into this box of "trinkets" with one pretense or another.  Generally, it is a desire to look at my favorite things like my first quill or my Gryffindor pendant.  Sometimes, I pick up that flute and pretend the sole reason why I am holding it is so that I can attempt to play it.

I don't know why I continue to make any effort to delude myself.  I know damn well that there is only one reason why I go into that box.  I do not pick up Hagrid's or Sirius' gift to immerse myself in nostalgia.  In fact, it is in an effort _not_ to feel _any_ emotions that I pick up one of these gifts.

Today, I select the flute.  It in itself holds memories.  I run my hands along the wooden shaft remembering a time in my life when everything seemed so much simpler.  At eleven, I just didn't understand what I was getting myself into.  I know now that I should have done a better job downplaying my notoriety.  It was a foolish thing to have done so many things that people noticed.  I should never have accepted the Seeker position.  I should never have sneaked out at night.  I should have just minded my own business.  But no.  I was so sure of myself.  I was so self-righteous.  I believed that nothing could harm me or my friends.  Oh, how wrong I was.

I set a silencing charm up around my four-poster, close the curtains, and sit down in my accustomed comfortable position.  I raise the flute and bring it sharply down on my leg.  This act brings my memories back to the more recent past.  Damn that Voldemort and his followers.  Ever since he came back, he has been going out of his way to make my life miserable.  I don't know how I possibly believed that he wouldn't be able to exploit our connection.  Of course he could!  It only took the death of Sirius for me to figure that fact out.

I snap the flute harshly against my leg again in punishment.  I'm supposed to be calming down, not bringing up past anger at my own ignorance.  Yes, I should have known.  Yes, I could have done things better.  If it wasn't for my stupidity, Voldemort wouldn't be back to his old power.  If it wasn't for my damned honor, people would be alive today.  I hit my leg even harder.  This isn't working!  It is supposed to hurt like it did when I first started doing this… when I first realized my own stupidity and ineptness.  I hit again.  This is supposed to push away the emotions, make me calmer!  This is supposed to make life simpler.  

I loose track of the times that I hit my leg with this stick.  By the time I loose the feeling in the part of my leg I'm hitting, my mind is relaxed enough that I can finally focus solely on the events of today and what brought me to open my little box.  Ron!  Oh Merlin, Ron, what are they doing to you?  You should have never become my friend.  Nobody should have ever tried to befriend me.  It only gets them hurt in the long run.  I mean, just look at what Stugis Podmore and Arthur Weasley had to go through to protect that prophesy.  Look at what happened to Sirius!  And you get taken away from me.  Hermione is stricken, and you know what?  She blames me!  She wasn't even there and she blames me.  In fact, the whole school does.  They all think that I am a monster now.  You had better come back, if only just to set them straight and to get them off my back.

My heart feels like it is made of rock and I'm shaking so hard it's amazing that I can even hold this flute.  The flute is obviously not working.  I need something else.  Everything is bottled up inside and it needs a release, but I will not cry.  I haven't cried since I realized that I was not a child anymore.  I haven't cried since I realized my utter stupidity after Sirius died.  That was almost two years ago.  There is only one way that I know of that would release this pressure in my heart.

Shakily, I return the flute to my box and take out my little penknife that Sirius gave me.  Before I can do anything, my breath is taken from me in a wave of guilt and pain. If I could cry, I would cry for Sirius.  The only reason why he ever got in trouble in the first place was because of me.  My parents would never have gone into hiding if it weren't for me.  My parents wouldn't have died if it weren't for me.  I ruined people's lives.  I've ended people's lives.  

I reposition myself on my bed and bring the ever magically sharp blade to the inside of my left arm.  I am angry!  I am guilt-ridden.  I'm alone.  I am too overcome with emotions.  They need to stop!  I can't control this many painful emotions!  I can't breathe.  I need release.  I need to see the blood: the tears I can't shed.  I don't even feel the first cut.  How is this going to help me if I can't even feel it?  Irritated, I cut again.  And again.  Finally, I feel the pain and the blood dripping down my arm.  I breathe deeply feeling the pressure in my chest lighten.

The blood is beautiful.  I don't think that I will ever develop a taste for it, but it is soothing to watch it flow.  It is so full of life.  This time, I take more care as I cut.  I love the way the blade, already stained with blood, enters my skin.  I hear the unique sound that could only be the layers of my skin being forcefully torn apart.  I can smell the blood so much that I could almost taste it.  I watch with renewed fascination as this new cut slowly fills with blood, blood that will drip thickly and mix with the other blood that is already falling from my mangled arm.  

I love my cuts.  I love watching as the cut heals, scabs over, and turns into unforgettable scars that I love to touch with surprising gentleness.  They are a history that I would never wish to be rid of.  The calm I feel after I have cut myself is amazing.  I'm actually surprised that I was able to calm down at all after all the emotions I was trying to overcome.  I lie down on my bed without cleaning up the mess.  Vaguely and tiredly, I wonder if I went too far to achieve this level of calm.  Unfortunately, I cannot think further on it as my world turns dark.

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(A/N) Be kind, this is my first published fic.  Review?


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